


hold me, lover, like you used to

by sinfulchihuahua0602



Series: soft jonmartin [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28375695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfulchihuahua0602/pseuds/sinfulchihuahua0602
Summary: He shouldn’t have left him alone, not in a crowd like this.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist
Series: soft jonmartin [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2081499
Comments: 7
Kudos: 156





	hold me, lover, like you used to

Martin feels it first as a very distant ache in his head - not quite a headache, but still a slight pain. The vendor in front of him winces, a movement barely noticed as Martin looks up quickly from his phone, but then he’s giving a little grimace and shifting on his feet as he continues making the crisps. 

Someone bumps against Martin; there’s a quick exclamation, and the woman jumps far too much for a normal encounter. “S-sorry,” the woman says, as Martin’s head snaps towards her quickly, but she’s already glancing away as she moves swiftly forward, sort of paranoid little jerks to the movement of her head, as if she feels like she’s being watched. 

Martin feels it then, too - a distant terror inside him, a pressure on him like he’s taking an exam, or being judged in some sort of way. As if he’s being  _ watched.  _

_ Fuck.  _

Martin turns to the vendor, who’s hissing in pain now. “You know what, cancel the order,” he says quickly, and then he turns, doing his best to slip through the crowd as quickly as possible. It’s a bit difficult - his symptoms are nowhere near as bad as what he knows the others are feeling. A gradually building headache, the feeling of being watched, a sort of intense terror for survival suddenly flaring up. 

Every person he bumps into as he fights through the crowd jumps hard enough as if Martin’s burned them, most of them grimace in pain and put hands to their heads, quite a lot are glancing around nervously, eyes wide with terror. None of them, in and out of the radius of effects, seem to notice the abnormality of it all. 

Martin sees it, then, like green mist in the air, glowing faintly as it hovers. It’s two thin strands with eyes between, wide and staring out as the strands undulate up and down in waves, all circling around one man’s head. 

Jon’s glowing faintly green as well, arms wrapped around himself. He’s nearly pinned against the wall by the people trying to enter the Tube, backpack crushed against the wall, and Martin can see the panic in his entire posture. 

He shouldn’t have left him alone, not in a crowd like this. 

“ _ Move,”  _ Martin hisses - his head aches distantly again, and he has the sudden, faint urge to flee for his survival. He ignores it, continuing to fight through the crowd, using limbs and words to scare everyone enough into letting him through. 

It’s not hard, given the effect Jon’s powers are having on them, and Martin eventually slips through to the wall Jon’s at. “Jon,” he says, “Jon, I’m here.”

Jon’s staring at the ground, breathing too quickly, wreathed in a faint green mist with that glowing crown above his head. Martin steps forward just as someone bumps into Jon hard - he stumbles a few steps towards Martin, head snapping up, and Martin can see the green flash in his eyes as he sees the person apologize quickly before practically fleeing through the crowd. They may not consciously understand Jon is the source of their sudden fear, but their subconscious does. 

Jon hits Martin as he stumbles; Martin takes the opportunity and reaches out to put his hands on Jon’s shoulders - lightly, never harsh, not hard at all, but turns Jon towards him. “Jon, it’s Martin, it’s me,” he pleads, even as Jon continues shaking. “You’re safe, you’re safe, I’m here, Jon.”

A minute shift, barely noticeable, but Martin knows this exact cue and pulls Jon close to him as he leans just a little into Martin’s hands. One arm wraps around his back, light enough so as not to feel suffocating, and Jon’s cheek is pressed against his sweater. 

Martin knows he has to ground him, but he knows how delicate a process it is. Like a balloon; pop it, and it’ll fall to the ground quickly. Jon will spiral faster if he’s trapped and he’s not comfortable, but leave him to his panic attack alone for too long, or don’t be smothering enough, and he’ll simply float away, spiral deeper into this panic. 

So he spends several long minutes holding Jon lightly. Breathing, shoving down his own panic, hoping that it still works, that he does this right. He failed it, once, and setting aside the effects of his Archivist powers leaking out with his lack of control, Jon wouldn’t let anyone touch him or talk to him for two days. Even Martin couldn’t come near him. 

Martin’s made a promise to himself to never ever let Jon spiral that far again, and he desperately hopes he won’t break that promise today. 

There’s a breath, then, soft and barely audible, carried away entirely on the wind if Martin wasn’t listening for it. 

“ _ Martin,”  _ Jon breathes. The green glow flickers just a little, the mist is ragged at the edges. Martin’s head doesn’t ache at all, though there’s still a faint whisper of  _ run  _ echoing in his head. 

“Yes, yes, it’s me, Jon,” Martin says again, quickly. He wraps his other arm around, holds a little tighter. Small increments, he knows. “Martin Blackwood. Your boyfriend. Poet, uh, Archivist Assistant? In a broad sense, I guess. Or, really specific if you consider, well- anyway.” He stops himself, shoving down his panic and  _ focusing.  _ “Martin. I’m Martin,” he repeats. “Jon, you’re safe, it’s Martin.”

Another quiet breath, this time wordless. The mist is shifting and there’s a brown flicker in the glowing green of Jon’s eyes. His face tilts just slightly more into Martin’s sweater, and Martin holds a bit tighter. 

“It’s Martin,” Jon repeats a moment later, in a soft whisper. He increases his grip by another increment; Jon’s face turns more into Martin’s sweater, the green becomes a glint in his eyes and the mist is faint and getting fainter. His breathing is steadying; the people around Martin are quieting down, are returning to normal, and he himself can’t feel even the faint whisper of the symptoms he gets anymore. 

“Yes, it’s Martin,” Martin says, his voice softer now, without the desperate edge. He moves his hand up and down Jon’s back in a forcefully rhythmic motion. It has to be steady, Jon likes to focus on it. It’s constant, smooth, rhythmic. No change, no suddenness. 

Jon relaxes in increments now, breathing evening out as he buries his face in Martin’s sweater. The people around them are settled down; they get occasional glances and nothing more. Martin glares out at them from above Jon’s head at their quizzical looks. 

He feels Jon’s hands reach up and his fingers curl tightly in Martin’s sweater; he holds him a bit tighter. “Martin,” Jon says, quiet but steady. 

“Yes, it’s me,” he whispers back. Jon doesn’t look up at him, simply stands still, pressed against Martin with his face buried in his sweater and a death grip on the fabric with both hands. Martin is quiet, ceasing his rhythmic motion down his back to simply hold him. 

It’s a long moment before Jon pulls back. Martin lets him, feeling the slight tensing up that signals the touching is too much now, and drops his arms completely. When Jon looks up at him, his eyes are fully brown, a little bit pained and sad and warm all at once. 

Jon keeps his arms around Martin’s waist, holding loosely, close enough that they’re almost touching but not quite. “Thank you, Martin,” he says quietly.

“Anytime, love,” he replies, just as quietly, and Jon gives a small smile, a slight tilt of the lips upwards. Martin grins and slips an arm around Jon’s waist. He pulls a little, meets no resistance, and finishes the action, pulling Jon close to him and pressing a soft kiss to his lips, feeling Jon melt into it as he tilts his head up. 

Martin lets Jon pull back and rest his forehead against his collarbone. There’s a long moment of silence save for the crowd of the Tube station, and then Jon releases a long breath, his entire body seeming to sag with it. 

“I-I’m good now,” he says, louder and steadier. He doesn’t look up from where his forehead rests on Martin’s sweater. “Just- don’t- leave me- again,” he continues, stilted with a pained pause between each word. “I- I can’t- not today. Please.”

Martin pauses in the silence. “Is this an octopus mood?” he asks suddenly, subtly teasing. “You haven’t had one of those in months. I kind of miss it.”

Martin sees the smile grow along Jon’s face, feels him start shaking and a quiet laughter sound out, and he can’t help the grin on his face. Jon shakes his head, still laughing a little. 

“Well,” Martin continues, softer and sober once Jon’s laughter dies down and he can feel the quiet question hanging in the air - Jon’s question, Martin knows, of whether he’s finally become too much of a burden. 

He wasn’t a burden when Martin was incapable of doing pretty much anything because Jon was wrapped around him like he might disappear if he let go, and he isn’t now, so Martin looks down at his hair, forehead still against his sweater, and rubs his hand a little along his back. “Would you like to go get crisps together, then?” he asks. 

Jon’s quiet for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

Martin smiles as Jon straightens and looks up at him, trailing his hand down Jon’s arm until he can lace his fingers with his. “Let’s go, then,” he says. 

Jon smiles and turns to follow Martin’s lead to the crisps stand. 


End file.
